


Three Words Never Said

by Mandibles



Series: Teen Wolf Bingo [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Fights, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Season 2, Stiles in particular though, They're not very nice to each other, Violence, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:13:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, In which Jackson and Stiles beat the crap out of each other for no real reason.</p><p>Stiles can't say those three words, at least not to Jackson, so he improvises.</p><p>First fill for my TW bingo card: Jackson/Stiles, "rivalry"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Words Never Said

It all starts with words, of course.

The words that flip the switch and get them going always vary, though, and fuck if Stiles cares to remember what they are. They could be Lydia or lacrosse or Sheriff or kanima or  _Lydia_  or murderer or fucking lollipops or tap-dancing or Skittles. It could be  _anything_.

But none of that matters when blood starts roiling under Stiles’ skin, in his ears, and he can’t swallow the urge to mess up Jackson fucking Whittemore’s stupid, pretty face with red blood and purple bruises and pink welts. The marks will fade in a minute’s time, yeah, but the fact they  _happened_ , that Jackson fucking hurt, even if only for a moment, is enough for Stiles. More than enough.

So when he lets his fist fly—balled up tight because of some nasty jab at his dad, he thinks—and Jackson’s face screws up in a hideous grimace as it collides, Stiles is the one to gasp, punched right in the gut by a sweet, sweet shot of dopamine. Jackson staggers backward; Stiles follows, already set to fire another. The second one hits Jackson right under the chin. His head snaps up, ricochets off the fucking wall with a pleasant thump, and it takes everything Stiles has to stop the satisfied groan that tickles his throat.

He fails at that when Jackson swings blindly and catches him in the eye in an explosion of needle-sharp pain and colors and ringing, ringing, ringing in his ears. Of course, the groan is more pained than victorious at this point.

Stiles flails away, already cradling his eye, and he catches the squeak of Jackson’s sneakers as Jackson pushes himself back into the wall. Separated for the first time in five seconds or five minutes or five hours, they take the time to wince.

“You fucking  _bitch_ ,” Jackson snarls, rubbing his jaw. A line of blood rolls down from one of his nostrils.

Stiles scrubs at his watering eye, shoves at Jackson halfheartedly. “Fuck you. You think I’d just let you get away with talking shit about my dad?”

Jackson blinks, slowly, and Stiles wonders if he’d been wrong all along. Maybe the words Jackson spat weren’t about his dad at all. Or maybe Jackson just forgot what they were fighting about, too.

Whatever. What-the-fuck-ever.

Stiles shoves Jackson; Jackson shoves back. Stiles shoves him again and Jackson shoves harder.

“Bitch,” Jackson repeats.

“Tool,” Stiles counters.

“Pussy.”

“Loser.”

“Freak.”

“Monster.”

Stiles catches the tic in Jackson’s jaw, giddy. He might not remember what he says half of the time, but he never forgets  _winning_.

Drawing back his irritation with an audible grind of teeth, Jackson says, “Well, this monster’s going home to a bed full of Lydia Martin unlike some virgins I know.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to laugh. Like that means fuck all to him between Alpha packs and creepy zombie werewolves and Isaac snatching his best friend away from him. Stiles just wants to live to see any of it through. Jackson’s barb barely singes his shoulder, but Stiles knows exactly what buttons to push to make Jackson burn.

“I’m going home to my dad,” he says simply, pressing into Jackson’s space. He’s no werewolf, but he thinks he can smell the rage in Jackson’s shaking, balled fists. It brings a sharp smile to his face. “You know, my dad who’s actually  _my_   _dad_  and not some cardboard cutout with—”

Stiles expects the blow that smacks into his cheek. He doesn’t anticipate the one to his gut.

The air punched out of him and his lungs fucking shriveled into prunes, Stiles doesn’t register the floor until he’s  _there_ , hitting his funny bone just right. Nerve endings shrieking from practically every contact point, he barely gets a whimper in before Jackson’s on him. He pounces, claws fisted into Stiles’ collar, and they skid for miles, yards, feet, inches? Fuck if he knows. Adrenaline shocks through him and his brain’s swimming in rocky waters until he blinks up into electric blue eyes, bared fangs dripping with saliva.

Stiles blinks more. Past Jackson’s wild eyes, his arm pitches back for another blow.

“Fff—”

Jackson’s fist cracks against his mouth and Stiles blurts a garbled cry, copper on his tongue. He scrambles, kicks his legs and flails his arms and tries to scratch every bit of exposed skin—arms, neck, face, head—but Jackson remains firm, only hissing with every drop of spilt blood Stiles’ bitten nails manage.

When Jackson plants his hands at opposite ends of Stiles’ head, it takes everything Stiles has not to wince.

“Stilinski,” Jackson snarls, flecks of spittle hitting Stiles’ face. He’s further eloquent with, “You fucking—fucking—You fucking shit. You piece of fucking  _shit_. I will fucking  _end_  you.”

Stiles bursts into sudden, pained laughter. His mouth, his face, his elbow, his stomach ache, but the laughter keeps coming from deep in his chest, stealing the air he only just managed to regain. Especially when Jackson’s face twists like did when Stiles first punched him, the marks of which are gone besides the smudged remnants of blood by his nose and lips. He’s a wreck, face messy and ugly and stupid, and it’s fucking perfect.  There’s nothing more perfect than Jackson imperfect.

Jackson’s eyebrows bunch in confusion. He looks so lost and dumb and small that Stiles smiles, snaps his head up, and spits.

“ _Ugh_! Fucker—” Jackson pitches back and Stiles grabs for Jackson’s neckline, drags him down to the side. It takes most of his body weight and he ends up rolling a bit when Jackson finally hits the floor. They struggle for a second, two, three, but in the end Jackson’s too startled and Stiles ends up straddling his heaving chest, wrapping his hands loosely around Jackson’s throat so he can watch the horror wash over him.

Stiles takes no time to squeeze just the slightest bit. “Bitch,” he recycles with good humor, grinning despite the split lip at Jackson’s flinch. He squeezes tighter, admires the bob of Jackson’s Adam’s apple under his thumbs when he swallows. He realizes, breathless, “I could kill you.”

Jackson snorts though his eyes are still wide. “No, you can’t.”

“Can so.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Jackson clutches Stiles’ wrists, but doesn’t drag them away. “I could just shove you aside.”

“You could,” Stiles agrees. “But you’re not.”

That earns silence, darting eyes.

It’s true, though. Even if Jackson wasn’t a werewolf, he’s still stronger than Stiles ten times over, always has been. If he wanted to move, wanted Stiles to move, he would have been moved. If Stiles wasn’t so sure that Jackson leans into his throttling hold, he would have let go without hesitation, without being asked. But, no, none of that’s happening. Jackson’s beneath him now—Jackson wants to be beneath him—and he wants Stiles to crush his windpipe in his human, human hands. Why? Jackson’s just that fucked up, Stiles supposes.

So Stiles lets go. There’s no point in hurting Jackson if he’s just going to like it.

Jackson sucks in an unnecessary breath. Rubbing his throat, he murmurs, “Is this still about your dad?”

Stiles laughs, wipes blood from his lips. “That’s what I was about to ask you.”

“You punched first.”

“You got off on it first.”

Jackson blinks. “First?”

He winces when Stiles grabs a handful of his hair and jerks his head to the side. Which Stiles does because he can and because it feels  _good_. Does he need another reason? Jackson’s eyelashes flutter when he tugs once more and Stiles realizes this whole thing has derailed into something he can’t quite put a label on just yet.

So he doesn’t. He just licks at the bloodied cut on his lip and presses his thumbnail into the last bit scratches still left on Jackson’s cheek. He considers working them back open before they completely heal. Maybe he could add more. Maybe he could bite. Or maybe not.  Jackson might like it. Maybe Jackson would be up for another fight, though Stiles is sore, achy, and a little tapped out.

Jackson opens his mouth to say something. Stiles ignores whatever it is to press his lips to Jackson’s in a pseudo-kiss and whisper something—Lydia? Lacrosse? Kanima? Orphan?—that has Jackson’s eyes flashing in blue fury. He’ll probably regret it in another second, honestly, but whatever. What-the-fuck-ever. Jackson’s the only battle Stiles is sure to win and Stiles wants to get his victories while  Jackson’s still here, bloody beneath him, and not considering crazy things like _leaving_   _Beacon Hills_.

Because Stiles is sure, so sure, that he’d sooner tear him apart than let him go.

-

(Jackson leaves only a week or two later. Stiles doesn’t quite tear him apart, so he settles on decking him hard enough that he crashes into the side of his dumb Porsche. He claims it’s in the name of the shrieking, bouncing head of strawberry blond curls somewhere in the peripheral of his vision, but he prays Jackson can read the silent truth twisted, knotted, into a mess around it all—the punch, the declaration of defending Lydia’s honor, the spit of  _fucking asshole_.

Jackson’s flat, wounded look, though, tells Stiles that he doesn’t get a damned thing and probably hasn’t since this whole thing between them started.)


End file.
